


Transfiguration

by ChristyCorr



Series: Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Family Issues, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-04-04
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2019-01-19 01:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12400257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/pseuds/ChristyCorr
Summary: "As if you had no choice? There's a moment, there's always a moment, 'I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it', and I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one."





	1. Matches and Needles

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016.

One day, it happened.

Sirius Black wished he could've said it was a dramatic revelation of some sort—that absurdly random moment when you suddenly understand the meaning of life and the universe, when everything you've ever been through starts making sense, and when the world is a beautiful place to inhabit. It wasn't. In fact, the defining moment of his childhood happened in an entirely trivial way.

When he first came to Hogwarts, Sirius Black was a regular first-year. Well, as regular as a kid with his status and background could be, anyhow: he already knew a good portion of the student body and even some of his teachers; he was very familiar with all things magical.

Strangely enough, Sirius didn't get along with many of his relatives. He didn't even know why, but the likes of his cousin Bellatrix irked him. It wasn't the way they treated people with contempt and haughtiness—he had been raised to believe that that was normal behaviour—but it was actually something in the way they dealt with each other. He wouldn't understand it until many years later, but in hindsight, no one in the family truly _liked_ anyone else.

He stepped into the Great Hall with great curiosity and, unlike most of his fellow first-years, no fear at all. Sirius, of course, knew all about the Sorting; he would be placed in Slytherin, where some of his cousins would be waiting to greet him. Well, the truth of the matter was that Sirius had cousins in all houses, one way or another; but a pure Black wizard or witch hadn't failed to enter Slytherin in hundreds of years.

Sirius liked that idea. He fancied himself cunning and sly, and could only imagine the amount of rule-breaking Slytherins regularly got away with. It sounded promising, and certainly more entertaining than being educated for seven years in a strict and age-old environment.

They were all there—all the cousins with whom he'd grown up. Bellatrix was Head Girl; her boyfriend Rodolphus Lestrange was Head Boy. Andromeda was a Prefect, and he presumed little Narcissa had grown into the snotty blonde who was examining the apprehensive first-years with disgust and contempt. From the teachers' table, Horace Slughorn, an old friend of the family, waved merrily at him.

At some point in the ceremony, each of them bowed his or her head slightly towards the newest Black to enroll at Hogwarts. He acknowledged their salutes; he was, however, mindful of other first-years' nervousness, and didn't want to display the plethora of connections he already had in the school body. His parents had taught him that this sort of concern was a waste of time, and unworthy of a wizard like him—but, like every sane teenager at the mature age of eleven, he mistrusted his parents' recommendations a great deal.

A stern-looking, middle-aged woman whom he knew to be Professor Minerva McGonagall, the exasperating Head of Gryffindor House, stepped forward and beckoned the huddled first-years to approach. Sirius, along with Bartemius Crouch, James Potter and a handful of pure-bloods, stepped forward and thus emboldened the others to do the same.

Sirius glanced at a first-year boy beside him. He looked sickly, and his robes screamed their hand-me-down status. How could this kid—obviously not a pure-blood, probably a tragically impoverished Muggle-born—afford to study at Hogwarts? He wrinkled his nose and turned his attention back to Professor McGonagall, who was bringing the Sorting Hat to the front of the Hall.

"He's a Black," a voice behind him explained in a hushed tone.

Sirius grinned; it was nice to be part of a famous clan. His family was, in a way, wizard nobility. If there were kings in wizarding Britain—and some people thought that would be a rather brilliant idea—, the Blacks would be the royal family. It was a comforting thought.

"So what?" replied another voice.

"Basically, they're snotty and don't give a damn about anyone whose blood isn't as pure as theirs," the first voice answered scornfully. "It's a load of crap, but some of the oldest pure-blooded families believe it. They're insane, the lot of them."

Sirius turned around, seething, and faced the slanderer. Much to his surprise, it was none other than James Potter, his cousin twice removed. The two of them had never been close, but they usually nodded at each other during those awful family meet-ups of which the Blacks were so fond.

"They're your _family_ , James. Your _mother_ is a Black," Sirius replied hotly. Pure-blooded wizards always addressed each other by their given names: it helped others feel left-out when faced with the appearance of a familiarity that didn't always correspond to the reality.

"Aunt Cedrella is family too," James snapped. "I bet you don't hear your mum talking about her in any way—good _or_ bad. It's like she never existed. Don't you think that's even remotely screwed up?"

Cedrella Black had, against the entire family's wishes, married Septimus Weasley. It had been quite a scandal at the time, and most Blacks refused to talk about her, let alone speak to her. Sirius had seen her only once; she'd seemed all right from a distance.

"My side of the family helps her out," James continued. "But no, your side is too busy complaining that she married a Muggle-loving, pure-blooded wizard!"

"It's a—family honour thing," Sirius retorted at once, feeling his perception of the world being thrown off-balance for the first time by this unexpected tirade of James'. He'd been raised in an environment where he had never, not once, heard anyone say a thing against his parents' way of looking at the world.

"Family honour my arse. It's stupid and it's biased—not that I can ever hope to convince you, Slytherin boy."

The boy beside James shifted his weight to one foot and pointed out, "We haven't been Sorted yet."

James snorted. "I know, Peter, but his lot always goes to Slytherin—little dark wizards in the making, they are, with their knowledge of the Dark Arts and all sorts of evil spells."

Sirius stared long and hard at James. Who talked about Slytherin like this, anyway? The Head Girl was even from that house!

James shook his head, striving to maintain some faade of civility. "In any case, I suppose I'll see you around."

Sirius thought about what James had said for a moment. It had resonated with something inside him—a part of him he had never realised existed.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , James Potter wasn't completely wrong.

Maybe his parents were as nuts and medieval as James made them sound.

His eleven-year-old mind happily informed him that other eleven-year-olds were much more likely to be right than outlandish and old-fashioned Walburga and Orion Black.

"So, um," he began tentatively, "your dad doesn't... He never says bad things about Muggle-born wizards?"

James shook his head. "If it weren't for Muggle-borns and half-bloods, the wizarding world would've dwindled to oblivion centuries ago."

"But your mum, Aunt Dorea, was raised like the rest of us. Surely she—"

"Not all pure-bloods are as obsessed about this as the Malfoys and your parents, Sirius. In fact, most of them don't particularly care either way."

"I don't—"

"Abercrombie, Mark!" McGonagall called out all of a sudden, scaring the wits out of the three boys.

They turned to look at the ragged Sorting Hat, and waited for its decision.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" it said, seconds later.

"Black, Sirius!"

It took Sirius a few seconds to realise that it was his turn to walk up to the stool. He felt inexplicably confused now, and suddenly unsure what he wanted the Hat to decide. Perhaps it wouldn't be that bad to be in Ravenclaw.

McGonagall placed it on his head.

A small voice in the back of his mind said, " _Interesting._ "

"What?" he muttered, glancing uneasily at the inside brim of the Hat.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Sirius' stomach jerked upwards all of a sudden. Years of his mother's ranting about Gryffindors raced through his mind in the space of a few moments, and he wondered what she'd say when she found out. Would she believe him if he explained that he had had no choice?

"Mr. Black?" McGonagall prodded him quietly. "You should go sit with your colleagues."

It was only then that Sirius noticed the silence that had taken over the Great Hall. Andromeda, Narcissa and Bellatrix were gaping at him, surely not believing their ears. Sirius knew exactly how they felt.

James, too, was staring at him like he'd never seen his cousin before.

An abrupt fit of anger had Sirius leaping out of the stool and running towards a stunned James Potter.

Sirius punched him in the face, repeatedly, before any of the teachers were able to react. He didn't know why he felt this furious, or why he'd chosen to take it out on James—all he knew was that life had just gotten a great deal more complicated, and it was all bloody _Potter_ 's fault.

What could he do now? It wasn't fit for a Black to be in Gryffindor! It was simply incompatible,  
unthinkable! Why had he chosen to believe that git over his parents?

One thing Sirius knew for certain: he was not speaking to James Potter ever again.


	2. The Amazing Bouncing Ferret

Narcissa Black dreaded entering the place, the big mansion that was soon to become her home. Tall, dark trees surrounded her, and the path to the entranceway was purposefully daunting. The Malfoy manor was built to intimidate and to make all visitors feel inadequate: the front of the house was grand, a regal palace with columns and great arches; Narcissa was unaffected.

Wiltshire is always terribly unsurprising: she was well acquainted with the place and its inhabitants. She knew what it would require of her; she understood the age-old murmurs that echoed in its stony hallways. Narcissa was perfectly aware of what awaited her in the entrance hall—she could picture the scene effortlessly, from the look on Lucius' face to the ring that he was certainly fiddling with at that very moment.

He had taken her to most of its dark corners, pushed her against walls, and grown more and more familiar with the few curves of her lanky, aristocratic body. She felt as though such an act would rob her of some dignity every time, had it not happened in this grand a setting, but the stolen honour was kept private, one of the many secrets chilling the atmosphere of the manor.

He loved her, in his own way; she loved him back, perhaps more than she ought to. Her sister teased her for it, and their mother reproached her for being submissive and willing to live under Lucius' yoke. They didn't understand—they couldn't understand. Bellatrix, for all her obsessions and irrationality, never loved; she could not love, ever. It was simply not in her nature.

Narcissa loved, but not like Andromeda did. Narcissa's affection was logical, protective and pure; its object was adequate for what her relatives and their world expected of any Black. Not Andromeda—she forced the family to keep her under house arrest to prevent her from running off with her Mudblood lover—a _Hufflepuff_ of all people—an unremarkable, undistinguished Muggle; the association with him tainted the entire Black house.

It started raining. Narcissa gnashed her teeth and growled, as she always did when she thought of Andromeda. _Traitor_. The irresponsible, foolhardy woman was one year older than Narcissa herself, and because of that the latter's life had become much more difficult. Druella Black's protection was now obsessive: she demanded that Lucius marry Narcissa barely a month after the girl's seventeenth birthday.

Narcissa was well informed of her mother's plot, even though she would only come of age in a year's time. Behind the tall oak doors of the Malfoy manor, Lucius awaited with the Malfoy family engagement ring, ready to propose to her. 

She wanted to marry him, without a doubt, but she would like to finish her idiotic education first; she wished to become mistress of her own destiny before she was passed from the hands of one master—the stout, fearsome profile of Cygnus Black came to mind and made her shiver with memories of yelling, red-hot pain, and ugly bruises on her fair skin—to another—rough, but loving and crafty Lucius Malfoy. 

She loved them both; she was supposed to, and Narcissa was proper in every way. She despised them both, after a fashion, and in that she knew herself to be a true member of the family.

"You're ruining the surprise, Cissy. My soon-to-be brother-in-law has been waiting for several minutes now," Bellatrix snapped at her, whip-like and sarcastic as always. Twenty-year-old Bella was already married to Rodolphus Lestrange; the two were bonded only by their thirst for knowledge of the Dark Arts. 

Rodolphus, however, was somewhat mediocre in his ambitions, and failed to win over the Dark Lord's appreciation—unlike his wife, a Slytherin at heart and talented at cultivating a web of influence when she so wished; it was often not the case, since she deemed most wizards unworthy of her fleeting attention. Bella became Lord Voldemort's pupil, and was entirely devoted to him. Narcissa often wondered whether her sister's contempt for Lestrange's marital dedication and attributes was rooted in this devotion, and not at all related to Rodolphus' dexterity or lack thereof.

Narcissa of all people knew better than to think a scrawny and unremarkable man would satisfy her sister. The Black sisters were all well versed in the arts of seduction and sexual gratification—their parents had made sure of it, and the three girls idly practiced together, on their orders, as they grew up.

Most people would think it odd that girls brought up in such a strict environment would be allowed that small degree of debauchery, but such was the way of the family. No Black would endure the humiliation of having her husband look for pleasure in another woman's bed. No Black was supposed to depend on her husband's ability to sate her; they were not bred to be passive housewives.

Andromeda—weak, despicable turncoat she had turned out to be—had for some reason become horrified by their childhood practices over the years. She had heard things at Hogwarts, listened to the wrong sort of people; she revealed family secrets to her despicable Mudblood, and he reacted in a way that revealed just how close-minded and unexceptional his upbringing had been. 

One summer night, Andromeda had hexed Bellatrix for approaching her bed. That same evening, Bella's bruised ego had introduced Andromeda to the Unforgivable Curses first-hand. Two of them had been used that night, but two only; the middle sister had to live to remember how appalling her betrayal had been, and how well her dear family would deal with it from then on. Andromeda did nothing under the Imperius Curse that she had not done before, of course, or so Bella claimed.

Not trusting Bellatrix Black— _Lestrange_ now—was one of the first lessons when dealing with the Black sisters. Suddenly, Cissy remembered that the eldest of the three was waiting for her reply.

"I'm going soon," she said, not quite knowing the reason for her delay and unwilling to admit it.

"Don't worry. He'll wait." Bellatrix's jet-black hair was dripping with rain, but she remained impassive. She twirled her wand idly, as if lost in thought; Narcissa knew better than to ignore the gesture. Her sister had become quite proficient in non-verbal Legilimency over the last few years.

Despite knowing that—or perhaps because of that—she allowed herself to think of Bella once more. Bellatrix as she was here, though a fearsome and intimidating dark witch at the height of her powers, was indissoluble from the overbearing and demanding woman whom Cissy had known so well on other, more intimate occasions. 

Four years separated the two sisters, but the age difference seemed fluid. At times, when Bella revealed her wide-ranging knowledge, she seemed older, wiser. Despite that, Narcissa knew her sister to be everything but wise; Bella was abysmally foolish and naively ignored much of the world's ways due to her black-and-white perspective. Cissy was very much grey, and took pleasure in living in the undefined, silver area of the undecided.

This bliss would not be allowed for long, of course, and Narcissa knew where her loyalties would lie when the time came. She hated being so certain of it; that made her feel powerless, and no Black could withstand such vulnerability.

Sometimes, she loathed Bella for visiting her sister's bed after a particularly difficult achievement in wizardry; she hated Bella for coming to her, and not to Rudolphus, when in the mood for one of her tantric experiments. Bella used advanced magic then, and taught Narcissa intricate spells that no decent, lesser witch could ever know.

In truth, Narcissa hated most of all the fact that she could not refuse Bella—the possibility was simply unthinkable. They were together; they were one, united from birth in the purest and strongest of ways. Bella was the dark, dangerous half, and Narcissa was the unpolluted, spotless part of the family—neither was entirely or solely that, of course, which was why Andromeda's role was to keep the balance.

Andromeda, the maternal one, was the softer sister who had consoled Narcissa at times, and yet had seldom failed to demand of her the duty all three knew better than not to keep—Andromeda, who had now decided to forfeit their upbringing for a worthless piece of _dirt_. She would change her mind eventually, of course, but Narcissa would never forgive her for hesitating.

"No one will," Bellatrix shrugged, replying to Narcissa's thoughts, as usual. "I don't know why you waste your time thinking of her, really. Mother may not even allow Andromeda to return to Hogwarts—I advised her not to, but father opposes the idea."

"It's traditional," Narcissa replied. It was an answer every Black had heard thousands of times: it silenced all questioning, and they were trained not to enquire further. The insignificant detail that Andromeda was Head Girl this year couldn't matter less. "Never before has a Black failed to complete all seven years of Hogwarts education. Even though I do see the advantage of depriving her of _those two_ , of course."

Neither would dare speak their names in public. Even among themselves, few family members pronounced the names of Muggle-born Ted Tonks and teenage rebel Sirius Black unless forced to do so.

Sirius was Andromeda's best friend. The entire family correctly attributed her defiance to the amount of time she had spent with him, disgusting Gryffindor pig he'd become. The _company_ he kept these days was appalling; it was a wonder Aunt Walburga even allowed him to return home for the holidays. 

It wouldn't last long, obviously. He escaped Grimmauld Place every summer to stay with the Potters, or even the inglorious Pettigrews. Were Orion and Walburga stricter, more efficient parents, the problem would probably have been solved by now, with harsh discipline and punishment.

Narcissa's mother, Druella, had often derided her sister-in-law's lack of backbone. It was ironic, then—almost amusing, really—that a similar problem should trouble her own household.

"You will marry him," Bella noted conversationally, nodding towards the manor.

Narcissa nodded.

"Here's to a successful and worthy marriage, then!" she bowed in a mock salute. "May you give cousin Lucius a healthy heir," Bellatrix's lips curled in a vicious sneer, "and _plenty_ of daughters."

Cissy shuddered inwardly, and she realised that she did not wish to have any female children. She would lack her parents' strength of character, and the little ones' upbringing would be faulty; she would not, perhaps, have the necessary heartlessness to transform them into praiseworthy purebloods—Malfoys, of course, but in essence still Blacks.

Narcissa stroked her belly in an entirely involuntary fashion, and turned to the entranceway to the manor, now determined to enter and face life as a grownup—as the wife and mother she was destined to become.

Without another word to Bella, she ascended the many steps that led to the oak doors, and opened them with a spell. She looked at the expectant Lucius, whose face brightened with an almost uncharacteristic wide smile, and Narcissa was filled with warmth and steely resolve.

She would gladly bear him one son only, a boy whom she would cherish with all her might. But no daughter would leave her womb alive: Narcissa was, after all, a Black, and would always be one. A woman of that family was always in charge of her own destiny, regardless of her familial obligations.

He knelt and proposed. Soon to be a Malfoy, she would nevertheless remain a pure Black.

The family motto echoed in her mind as she said yes and enveloped Lucius in an affectionate embrace: always, _always_ pure. 


End file.
